counselvert

[counselvert]

Random Tingz

Bless the beasts and children, the gays and the goddess indeed, because I swear I won’t survive any of this. Upon perusing the prerequisites of the character sketch, my alter ego and I became perturbed. Perturbed not only by the notion of having me, an overt introvert, interview a real-life human (see, the suspicious diction speaks a lot) but also because I might crumble under the weight of strictness and rigidity. And so, the devil, donning Prada (what else?) opened her camera. I could just feel her presence become the stiletto heel constructing my arteries and stomping on my ego (as Olivia Rodrigo said, “Ego crush is so severe.”) My dignity liquified underneath her guillotine stare, and she punctuated my anxiety-drenched, ruffled questions with a side eye and a thought balloon, shrieking, “I’d rather be somewhere else rather than engage in this bleak narrative.” 

[counselvert]

E-Journal

I'll solely speak of this in this blog, but I will admit. Although I initially perceived the E-journal entries as a curse (because who has the time to whip out threads of words EVERYDAY?), I acquired a huge, healthy dose of catharsis from that specific task. I'll always be thankful for that ERA.

[counselvert]

On Writing

I can't. For someone who writes, the hardest thing to do is to write.

[counselvert]

RALPH

I don't know why penning a BIO is the most tedious task in the world. Actually, I perused through Twitter and the specific user and I shared the same sentiment:

"I can write several paragraphs. I can write a story. But a bio? No, thanks."

[counselvert]

GENUINE LOVE

Sex is the crescendo of our skirmishes.

Rage begets rage

Rage chaperones sex

Sex is the crescendo of our skirmishes.

Inscribe your glorious aggression on my skin

And I'll doodle my curious veneration in yours

Your hands -- barbed wire on my flesh

Your fingers -- a quintet to behold

Your tongue -- a ribbon of infidelity

Choke my necklace of misery

Bring out the best of me

And I'll bring the best pleasure to you

[counselvert]

PROPA-GHANDI

To accomplish the Herculean art of braiding, I needed to invoke the Muses. A cup of scalding coffee alone wouldn't suffice. It was a prerequisite to guzzle the chalice of creative juice from their altar.

Staying upright on my ladderback chair was a tedious task, especially after an exhausting roundabout of synchronous classes. The seductive undertone of slumber slithered around my oval face and my S-shaped brows. With its entire weight, it pressed itself on my eyelids, tugging the lappet of skin like Venetian blinds. Notwithstanding, I stomached my way through the temptation and turned my Lenovo laptop on. Soon, the blinking cursor of my blank Word document was reciprocating my drowsy stares. The monitor’s glow was the sole light source inside the makeshift study nook of my deteriorating apartment. My metaphorical Venus amid the unforgiving tenebrosity of this Monday night.

The wall clock pointed an accusatory finger on a sleek number: 11:11.

The text message will arrive in 19 minutes.

In the meantime, I contacted my colleague through Skype. Perhaps, a dose of small talk could keep the boredom at bay.

“Hail, Propa-Gandhi,” he greeted.

“Hail, Miss Faux.”

As for the specifics of our companionship, Minimalism was of supreme importance. I was cognizant of his age: 18-years-old. I was familiar with the hallmarks of his countenance: Hooded, almost graveyard-evoking eyes, a rockabilly quiff, and most notably, a slash running across his sideburn like a crimson San Andreas Fault. That’s about it. But considering how fraudulent and corrupt the art of braiding was, this velvet rope of ambiguity was for the best (which also explains our peculiar nom de plumes).

Apprehension blotted his voice. “Uh, it’s out. It’s out, right?”

“Yes, it’s all over every news outlet. Even Facebook. Even Twitter.”

He nodded in resignation. “All is well. All is well.”

I turned both my microphone and my camera off. Almost impulsively, thru my pixelated screen, I scrutinized Miss Faux like an angel knowing that his demise was imminent. I could sympathize with him; I found it an arduous job to do so. But he knew what he was getting himself into. He flirted with the ingratiating concept of insubordination. Now he has booked himself an exclusive date with death. May his soul be delivered from the wrath of President Doughtart’s death squads.

[counselvert]

INNARDS

In the innards of the mahogany closet is a skeleton.

Ribs and all -- all me, but none to spare

I, the lone, living occupant.

I hang

Like Judas Iscariot, like Ahithophel.

Within the varnished wood whittled by termites,

Claustrophobia speaks.

The diminishing marrow of my bones cascades into the neglected garments.

Torn T-shirts, dirty dresses

[counselvert]

EVERGREEN TAPESTRY

The subconsciousness of Mother Nature bestowed its essence on the verdant grass. As the beads of dew kiss the soles of my brother's slippers, he grins.

[counselvert]

COUNTENANCE

A canvas of bliss – one that has yet to be blighted by the ruthless strokes of reality